Lost

By Pierantonio Foltran

Young Alessandra is fleeing from an impossible love.
At the end of July 2014, she is seriously wounded during an air raid on the Médecins Bénévoles field hospital in Aleppo, resulting in a complete memory loss.
A few years pass, during which she survives thanks to the valor and friendship of the many courageous people that cross her path, and she is eventually able to get back to Europe.

Different Scenarios
Once in Paris, she tries to create a new life for herself: everything’s changed, after all, including her.
A casual meeting with Andrea, though, brings her to the realization that their love remains unaltered, just like the situation that pushed her to leave in the first place; if anything, it’s become more complicated. In fact, as she was stranded in the midst of the Syrian war, Andrea, thinking her dead, gave in and married her twin sister.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mnamon
• Release date: Apr 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9788869495311

Pierantonio Foltran

He was born in 1961 in the province of Treviso, where he lives and works.Married and with two children, he wrote his first novel, Love in the Venetian province, also driven by a passion for the places and cities of his Veneto.

Book preview

PIERANTONIO FOLTRAN

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LOST

mnamonebook

To embraces, the real ones.

We are the time in which we await one another.

F. Caramagna

PART ONE

THE SYRIAN FRONT

Aleppo, July 28th 2014

The dust caused by the partial collapse of the staircase and of a consistent part of the outside wall had come barreling through the emergency doors, which had been left open to mitigate the torrid heat.

The explosions had shattered the windows of the two large rooms on the ground floor, sending shards of glass flying through the room like confetti and unleashing panic among the patients.

Mothers had instinctively flung themselves over their children’s bodies in an effort to shield them; the younger patients had sought refuge under the beds, while others still had torn the Iv needles from their arms before frantically looking for a place to hide; the older patients had started crying out in terror and thrashing helplessly on their sweat-soaked sheets.

Then, the cloud of dust had covered everything, even their cries.

When the first bomb went off, Avanisch had found himself with his back against one of the inside-facing walls. He was terrified as he knelt to the ground and brought his arms over his head, breathing fast and keeping his eyes shut until the second explosion.

Everything had lasted just a few minutes.

Now dust filled the air and was already settling on the people and the beds like a dark, gray blanket.

Some patients began coughing, breaking the unnatural silence: the mouths of those closest to the entrance were filled with dust and debris.

The young Indian doctor was among the first to recover, a sharp ringing in his ears as he tried to make sense of the shadows all around him and to navigate his way toward his ward in order to assist his patients.

Five minutes earlier, the senior surgeon was sitting on a stool in the small operating room that currently held just one patient. A young Syrian nurse was standing next to him. They’d just injected the patient’s right calf with a local anesthetic when the first bomb went off.

The nurse immediately reached out for the patient to shield him and secure him to the operating table; when the second bomb went off, the young Syrian hunched over the man’s chest and clasped his hands on his head to protect himself as well.

Arthur Ruben, the elderly surgeon, was caught off-guard and fell hard from his stool. He lost his grip on the scalpel he’d been holding and it flew through the air before landing on the patient’s left leg, luckily without cutting him. Mere seconds after the second explosion, the patient, the doctor and the nurse found themselves cowering under the operating table.

It took more than fifteen minutes for the dust to settle completely. In that time, the three doctors and five nurses currently manning Aleppo’s temporary hospital did their best to comfort their patients and help them back into their beds.

Thankfully, the electrical system was supported by a small backup generator, which had kicked into action immediately. Later, they discovered that the water tank on the roof, too, had remained intact. Only two patients were in need of urgent care; they were among those who had ripped the Iv needles from their arms, injuring themselves.

Avanisch was trying to reassure an elderly woman when he heard the firefighters’ sirens approaching the Médecins Bénévoles hospital quickly.

Soon, through the broken windows he saw the red truck pull up. Three men jumped down and, as Avanisch looked on, donned their protective gear. They walked through the front doors cautiously, entering the hardest-hit part of the hospital.

The first firefighter saw her immediately, even though the air was still murky with dust and she was covered in debris and broken glass.

The girl was slumped on the floor, her back against what little remained of the wall that supported the stairwell. Her eyes were closed and her arms were laying limply by her side, the palms of her hands facing up. It was almost as if, in her last moments, she’d resigned to the idea of death: - Here I am, I’m ready, take me away, - her pose seemed to say.

The second firefighter looked up before moving toward the girl, and noticed that part of the roof and the top of the south-facing wall were missing.

The third man also looked up and stood still for a moment, staring at the clear blue patch of sky beyond the gaping hole.

Meanwhile women were shouting in the street outside.

The three rescuers stood in a semicircle around the girl, their attention so caught by her dust-covered blond hair that it took them a few long seconds to begin clearing the glass and debris from her body.

Her long legs and bare feet stuck out from her tattered smock and they, too, were soiled and covered in dirt.

The three men couldn’t take their eyes off this body, but then the cries and the shouting coming from outside shook them into action. Two of them leaned down, one slid his arms under the girl’s legs, the other delicately put his hands under her arms, and together they carried her outside as her arms swung limply.

It was clear to the firefighters that the girl was dead. The two men crossed the street and finally laid her body gently on the ground near the sidewalk, where other four bodies had already been set.

When the wall had collapsed onto the street it had done so right in the middle of a small improvised market. At least four people had been hit and crushed by large pieces of concrete: there had been no hope for them, and they’d died in a matter of minutes.

Those who hadn’t been hit had promptly started digging through the rubble with their bare hands, extracting the bodies and then laying them on the other side of the street to protect them from another possible collapse.

Unfortunately when a doctor and two nurses rushed out they hadn’t been able to do anything for these people but ascertain their death, some from crush injury, others from head trauma.

Meanwhile, the young Indian doctor who’d seen the firefighters carry the girl’s body outside left his patients and rushed down the hallway and out into the street.

He knelt over Alessandra’s body and his worst fears were confirmed: it was his young Italian colleague and friend. As he ordered the two nurses who’d run outside just after him to go back inside and fetch a stretcher, he undid the top button of the girl’s smock and placed his stethoscope on her chest.

For now, the only heartbeat Avanisch could hear was his own: with tears in his eyes, he was too upset to concentrate on his patient’s vital signs. He still remembered the first time they’d met: the young woman’s beauty had caught him off-guard and as he bowed, hands clasped, he’d been incapable of uttering a single word, mesmerized as he’d been by the deep blue color of her eyes. Alessandra had smiled at his awkwardness and had offered her hand, looking straight into his eyes. The two didn’t meet again until a few days later, but it was then that they finally exchanged a few words in English.

Just a couple of days before the attack, Avanisch had partly overcome his shyness and given her a light blue veil to cover her long blond hair: a precaution, he said, at least for when she ventured out in the dangerous streets of Aleppo.

Avanisch now used a corner of her smock to clean her hair and face, buttoned it, and stood up impatiently to go look for the two nurses, who still hadn’t come back with the stretcher.

That’s when Nizar Quabbani pulled up on his motorcycle, jumped off, and began snapping pictures of the bodies lined up on the sidewalk, lingering on the young nurse.

Less than five minutes later, Avanisch lifted the girl onto the stretcher and wheeled her into the tiny operating room, where the surgeon and the young Syrian nurse were already waiting. Arthur checked the girl’s pulse, then they applied the oxygen mask. Alessandra’s life was saved by the gold charm that she wore around her neck: her zodiac sign was engraved on one side, her blood type on the other. It was A Rh+, fortunately one of the most common, so the doctors began the transfusion immediately. She’d lost a fair amount of blood from her many wounds, caused mainly by the shards of glass that had rained down from the shattered windows. A strong blow to the nape of her neck had put Alessandra into a coma, but after several minutes her breathing became regular again.

The next morning, Nizar Quabbani’s photos of the bodies on the sidewalk were on all the major Syrian newspapers, along with reports of the double explosion that had seriously damaged the Médecins Bénévoles hospital. There were five ascertained victims, including a young Italian volunteer, they said, and a picture of the girl’s beautiful face appeared on the second page. The articles didn’t explain who had deliberately attacked a hospital or, for that matter, why.

By that afternoon, news of the air raid was picked up and reported on by the European media, and the following day pictures of the Italian volunteer were splashed on all the front pages.

August 2014

She was walking down a long, dark tunnel, moving toward a light at the end of it.

After two days, Alessandra opened her eyes and the gauzy light, almost as if she was in the middle of a fog, brought the memories rushing back: the dust, the explosion, her fall over the stair railing, the sharp blow to her head and, finally, the broken glass raining down on her. She shut her eyes again: there was no pain, at least for now, and for a moment she felt as if she was in another dimension.

When she opened her eyes a few minutes later, the fog was gone, but it took her a few minutes to realize that she was in the operating room in the Aleppo hospital. She heard voices nearing, and they were speaking French.

Arthur Ruben and his young Syrian assistant entered the room and were greeted by two wide-open, bright blue eyes.

- Mon dieu, elle s’est réveillée - said Arthur.

Alessandra tried to put the two shadowy figures approaching her bed into focus.

- Dear girl, how are you feeling? - this time Arthur spoke English.

- I’m not in any pain – stuttered Alessandra, first in Italian and then, tentatively, in English.

Arthur reached into his pocket for his ophthalmoscope and examined her eyes.

- Ma chère, you’re still under the effect of the morphine, but unfortunately as it fades the pain will be back. What I’m actually concerned about, though, - he continued, - is the hematoma on your head. It’ll take a while to reabsorb and I can’t completely exclude another operation.

Then he drew a chair up to her bed and went on: - As far as the wounds on your arms and hands go, you’ll recover perfectly in a matter of weeks. The only potential risk is an infection. - Arthur paused and Alessandra blinked to show she understood. Then, the surgeon pointed to